


All the songs suddenly make sense

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [33]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (mention) - Freeform, Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Overdosing, Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, abridged version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Let's Write Sherlock last challenge (so sad to see it go!) a few songfics - precisely, one per season. This is the abridged version. Expect way more songs sometime next year.</p><p>Updated, though for some reason it still says this has only 2 chapters!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Season 1: Grande grande grande by Mina

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything.  
> A.N. Sooo…last Let’s Write Sherlock challenge (so sad about that!) asking us to write for any past challenge and I’m back at the one that made me actually join, the songfic challenge. This is the abridged version, one song for season. More songs (and the extended version of this fic) coming in the new year as I’ll be busy writing other projects with actual deadlines until then. Also, thank you so much to Sendai that helped me pick all the songs for both version. This wouldn’t exist without her. For the last time –alas -, enjoy (hopefully)!!!

Afghanistan left John with more than every night nightmares, luckily. He’d striken a friendship with people from every nationality there, and even if that bloody bullet forced him to leave them behind, when he feels nostalgic he has many ways to remember them.

Like Giorgio, a music-obsessed (and awfully tone-deaf at the same time) Italian soldier, who made him discover Mina because a. her voice is so good it’s almost out of this world and b. her name meant mine and it started a number of jokes.

He misses Giorgio today, for no reason at all (but maybe that it’s three whole days Sherlock doesn’t touches his violin and he’s gotten used to having background music in his life), and Mina sung romantic songs, so maybe he’ll find something of hers to apologize to Sarah for that horrific first date. He didn’t mean to get her kidnapped – though he should have guessed there was the chance of it. what was he thinking, following Mr. Not –my–area’s suggestions?

Instead, browsing among her lyrics, he finds a song that makes him wonder if she’s ever met his flatmate.  No, it can’t be, the song is older than that (he thinks at least). Though it is really amazingly on point. He ponders briefly making it his own ringtone for Sherlock’s calls, but the detective only ever texts anyway.

_Con te dovrò combattere – With you I’ll have to fight_

_Non ti si può pigliare come sei – You can’t be taken as you are_

For all that he honestly likes Sherlock, and that he wouldn’t dream to call him a freak or a psycho as so many do, John is only too aware that his flatmate needs some boundaries set for him. And that he’ll have to fight to enforce them, as the sleuth will keep pushing and pushing at them, trying to overwhelm him entirely. Not with any ill intentions. Just because the detective doesn’t see anything wrong with his actions.

“For the love of God, Sherlock, leave at least a drawer in the fridge for food only! Especially if you’re growing bloody mould!” and, “I swear, Sherlock, if you don’t leave the kettle alone while experimenting Lestrade will have to solve your murder! You drink tea, yes? Then let me the means to prepare it,” are almost daily occurrences.

John is still trying to figure out why sometimes the detective obeys him without question and other times he’s wilfully ignored. If he were Sherlock, he’d probably start a spreadsheet with all the variables, but he’s not and is still floundering, trying to figure his mercurial friend out.

_I tuoi difetti son talmente tanti – Your flaws are so many_

_Che nemmeno tu li sai – That not even you know them_

Violin playing and not talking for days? How about adding, “I’ll happily destroy your favourite things for science?” Or “I shoot the wall when I’m bored”? Just to name two at random. The list could go on and on, really. That’s the problem – Sherlock is barely aware of his own flaws. Or that his actions could be considered flaws at all. It doesn’t make for an easy cohabitation. John is far from a saint, himself, but sometimes he really has to flee not to react unduly. He doesn’t want to hurt Sherlock, either physically or psychologically.

_Sei peggio di un bambino capriccioso – You’re worse than a moody child_

_La vuoi sempre vinta tu – You want to win everytime_

Fine, it’s not even about Sherlock wanting to have his way everytime – that’s not it. But being like a child? The sulking king? Does John even have to mention it? He swears, sometimes he thinks Mycroft’s money wasn’t even meant to be for the spying (or perhaps it was, a simple test, and Mycroft would have him removed if he tried to accept – lucky him he passed with flying colours, then). No, at times he suspects that Sherlock himself thought Mycroft should pay him for babysitting the detective, which is why he’d been so flabbergasted by John’s refuse.

Or maybe it really was a genuine offer from Mycroft, not a test, and he would not have been exiled to Antartica had he chosen to ‘betray’Sherlock? Was maybe his friend used to the only people willing to stand his presence being on his big brother’s pay roll? That would be so…sad. Oh, he hopes he’s misinterpreting things.

_Sei l’uomo più egoista e prepotente che abbia conosciuto mai_

_– You’re the most egoist and overbearing man I’ve ever known_

Fine, that’s not exactly true either. Even if Sherlock himself would probably remark, “Sociopath, John. What did you expect?” But no, Sherlock can be selfless – towards the right people, and when he’s in a good mood.

And he’s not exactly overbearing either. John goes along with most of his requests too willingly to call him that. but he’s used to having his way. Whether it is by persuading, buying or tricking. In fact, Sherlock is extremely hard to say no to – John knows that better than anyone. The consequences of that are sometimes risky – but John loves risk, doesn’t he?

_Ma c’è di buono che al momento giusto – But the good thing is that at the right time_

_Tu sai diventare un altro – You are able to become a different person,_

_In un attimo tu sei grande, grande, grande – In a moment you are great, great, great_

_Le mie pene non me le ricordo più – My troubles, I don’t remember them anymore_

And isn’t this exactly Sherlock? One second he’s making your life impossible. But whenever someone needs him – for a case mostly, obviously, but not necessarily only for that – he suddenly becomes great. And amazing. And fantastic. And brilliant. And sooner or later John is going to exhaust the English thesaurus, and will have to start either reusing adjectives or inventing new ones.

His flatmate is a bit of a grammar nazi, but who knows how he feels about neologisms? Maybe something like fantellous (fantastically marvellous)? …Or not. Maybe not. Probably he wouldn’t appreciate that much.

But how can John adequately express how happy, and privileged, and honoured he feels to be by Sherlock’s side if not through such much-due praise? And what’s absurd is that he’s almost the only one offering it. Everyone who knows his friend should extol him to high heaven. Sherlock surely deserves it. and John is so lucky that Stamford brought him to Bart’s that fateful day. He should thank him someday. Get him a houseplant, maybe.

As Mina sings, when Sherlock is being wonderful there’s simply no remembering his flaws. Even if he’s making witnesses cry while he’s being brilliant. All is forgiven, John swept up by sheer admiration (even if he does hi best to cushion people from the sleuth’s ruthless brilliance).

_Io vedo tutte quante le mie amiche son tranquille più di me_

_-          I see all my friends are calmer than I am_

That’s true, of course. The lives of John’s other friends are not a rollercoaster of madness and brilliance, thumbs in the food shelf and chases after killer-driven cabs. Mike has not certainly got fat by feeling his heart in his throat twice a day at least. Bill’s highlight of the week is commenting on the football match – watching it his idea of excitement. Arthur’s idea of being pleasantly scared involves participating to a séance. Nobody can even start to comprehend how marvellously unique life with Sherlock is, no matter how much John shares.

_Non devono discutere ogni cosa come tu fai fare a me_

_-          They don’t have to argue about everything like you make me do_

Certainly none of his friends are faced with never knowing what will be beside yesterday’s leftovers in the fridge (“Leave at least one shelf for food, Sherlock!”)  or peculiar requests when doing the shopping which leave him red in embarrassment for half a day - and it’s always, “For science, John!” or “A man’s alibi depends on this, John!” and how can he ultimately refuse? Suggesting his majesty do his own shopping would be met only with incredulous stares, and he doesn’t have the heart to subject the people at Tesco’s to Sherlock in all his mad glory.

Then there’s a line in the song about red roses, which John emphatically does not expect nor wishes to receive from his flatmate in any way. But the singer is a woman, and in love, and so of course that’d be part of the ‘normal’ package she apparently doesn’t get, being in love with someone very much like Sherlock.

Though John suspects that if his flatmate ever fell in love with someone outside the Work and landed himself in a relationship somehow he might bring her roses. To manipulate her into letting him into keeping the brain in the fridge, most likely, but Sherlock knows how to behave. It’s just that he doesn’t care enough to, most of the time.

_Dicon sempre di sì – They always say yes,_

_Non hanno mai problem e son convinte – They never have problems and are convinced_

_Che la vita è tutta lì – That that’s all there is to life._

Well, maybe never having problems is an exaggeration. But it is true that his friends are never faced with absolutely outlandish requests (which include being guinea pig to various harebrained experiments) and live quiet, relaxed – in comparison – safe, ordinary lives.

They can barely conceive of life with Sherlock – always wondering if John isn’t wildly embellishing his tales or downright inventing them all whenever he recounts something. Because for them that’s not ‘life’. It is, instead, a mix between a mystery book and things so absurd not even a book could contain without them scoffing at how implausible it is. Only John’s tales are not plausible. They’re entirely true.

_E invece no, e invece no, la vita è quella che tu dai a me_

_-          No instead, no instead, life is what you give to me_

John will never be grateful enough to Sherlock. Because he was dying, contemplating his then-useless gun in a bleak bedsit, merely existing and wondering why was it worth to go on. Then Sherlock happened. He took John in his flat, his life and his work (even the all-important Work – John is so lucky Anderson has always been a git) and John started to breath again.

He now gets up (even at two and half in the morning – “We’ve got a case, and this one is at least a five, John!”) looking forward to his day. To be entirely honest, looking forward to Sherlock and whatever he’ll come up with at any given moment. His gun is once again a means of protection, and not a threat to his own life.  He lives, doesn’t just survive – his blood singing in his veins whenever he follows Sherlock in yet another new adventure.

_In guerra tutti i giorni sono viva – At war every day I am alive_

_Sono come piace a te – I am as you like me._

And more than that, John’s back to the man he himself likes to be (though his friend certainly has no objections to his nature). Mycroft was right. He missed the war. He languished without it. Now once again he has a companion to protect, enemies to fight. When he follows Sherlock, he feels like he’s doing what he’s born to do. Adrenaline addict, surely – but as long as he gets to shield the brilliant detective from this or that criminal and end up giggling with him like schoolgirls, or receive a soft, awkward not-quite-thanks from his friend, that’s not bad, is it? What more could John want from life? (Nothing, he tells himself firmly. Nothing.)

_Ti odio poi ti amo poi ti amo poi ti odio poi ti amo,_

_–        I hate you then I love you then I love you then I hate you then I love you,_

_Non lasciarmi mai più. – Don’t leave me ever again._

Now, hating might br too strong a word. But he is mightily annoyed by his impossible flatmate at times – and storms off as a result. Often – someone would say too often, even – but in the end, he always comes back. Not just because he lives there, you know. Because his anger drifts away quickly, and then the only thing he can remember is how bloody fantastic Sherlock is despite all his flaws.

And then Sherlock will be more than a bit not good again, and look as if he doesn’t realise it all, and John will be angry again an wonder why he’s stuck being a moral compass/parent figure to his toddler consulting detective/friend and storm away again, and come back in a hour, after a veritable barrage of contrite texts which he dearly hopes Sherlock really means. It’s a never ending cycle.

Truth is, he could never even imagine leaving for good, and not for money reasons. He’s addicted to the life his friend provides – and can’t entertain the thought of him leaving, either. He’s not about to go to Sherlock rehab, thank you very much (thank God the sleuth might disappear sometimes, but he always faithfully comes back too).

_Sei grande, grande, grande – You’re great, great, great_

_Come te sei grande solamente tu – You’re the only one as great as yourself._

Ditto. The singer certainly has a point – if we’re talking about Sherlock, at least. Well, great and – insert thesaurus there. Pick your own adjective. Personally, John’s favourite is brilliant – like the sun. The one the doctor orbits around since he’s found him. Sherlock would scoff at him so much for this kind of mawkish metaphors, but – it’s true, isn’t it? He’s in Sherlock’s orbit – and alive because of it. And he won’t ever tell him outright. These are the sort of things John finds way too hard to verbalise.  


	2. Season 2 - I'll stand by you, by Pretenders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Of course I don’t own a thing. Don’t be dull. ;D   
> Original A.N. In July the Sherlock Challenges tumblr blog will revive the monthly tradition of Let’s Write/Draw Sherlock. Artist and fellow writers…we are in luck!  
> Actual A.N. Oh God! This was meant to be posted 2 months ago and I apparently never did and even the fact that the chapter wasn't listed didn't clue me in and I am just SO SORRY! I'm an idiot.

 

It all starts during a Bond night (Goldfinger,actually). Sherlock picks at every scene, of course he does, loudly and vehemently, but that’s just part of his charm. Things wouldn’t be the same otherwise – John would certainly start checking if his flatmate is running a fever or some other illness. One of the remarks is, “Why do they even have a villain theme? Do they think people who watch won’t recognise the evilness of the man without the accompanying tune?”

“Oh, I don’t know – some criminal mastermind seem to indeed enjoy a good musical accompaniment. I can’t hear Staying alive anymore without getting the urge to check for snipers,” John admits after the movie ends. If his friend can reference conversations had hours prior – and sometimes carried on in absentia -  it’s only fair that he can, too. While it is said airily, it’s not something he would admit to anyone but Sherlock – not even Ella. The consulting detective was there. He understands.   

“I don’t think that was done on purpose,” the sleuth objects. He doesn’t say he has the same reaction. That is obvious.

“With Moriarty, I can never tell, honestly. That man is…something else,” the doctor admits. If he even is a man. After meeting Jim, John is ready to believe in demons and every creature that has populated human nightmares.

It seems the consulting detective takes his sentence as praise for his nemesis, though, if the pout is any indication. Placatingly, his blogger adds, with a quirky smile, “Anyway, if he gets a villain theme, you get your own theme too. Which song do you want? Or something classical maybe?”

“I don’t need one. You can be James Bond, John, so you should pick. Going around shooting people and seducing any pretty girl in sight? That’s definitely your style, not mine,” Sherlock replies, with a fond grin.

John does not point out that in their game, he’s definitely the sidekick (even the papers know that, naming him the Robin to his Hatman). He just admits, “I’ve always wanted to be,” rolling his eyes at his own young self’s wild dreams.

This is forgotten, for a while. Until after that catastrophic Christmas with the Woman’s (apparent) death. Then, one day the doctor interrupts his friend’s possibly heartbroken violin playing to state, “I’ve picked my theme song.”

“Which one?” the sleuth inquires, abruptly ceasing his music and looking curious.

“I’ll stand by you. Sung by the Pretenders,” John declares.

“Are you sure that it is a James Bond-like theme?” Sherlock queries. He can’t say that he remembers the song, but the title seems…well, only half heroic.

“Maybe not. But it is a very John Watson-like theme,” his blogger states, smiling fondly.

“Duly noted,” the sleuth replies, before restarting his mournful playing. Of course, since the one sin he could never curb is his curiosity, he would later on – when John was out on some menial errand, so he wouldn’t know – research the song. What he finds leaves him wondering if it is meant as a message. He can’t keep the smile off his face for a good hour after reading the lyrics.

_Oh, why you look so sad, tears are in your eyes,_  
_Come on and come to me now, don't be ashamed to cry,_  
 _Let me see you through, 'cause I've seen the dark side too._  
 _When the night falls on you, you don't know what to do,_  
 _Nothing you confess could make me love you less,_  
  
_I'll stand by you,_  
 _I'll stand by you, won't let nobody hurt you,_  
 _I'll stand by you_

Of course John means it as a message. He’s wondering, incapable to puzzle out if his friend is indeed heartbroken over that…over Irene, or simply in a mood. He wants to comfort, but he’s not sure if comfort is needed in the first place, and they are British men, they do *not* talk about their feelings…but the doctor is starting to think maybe they should.

They should talk, and hug, if Sherlock needs it, and God please don’t just write sad music into the night, rant if you need too, cry if you need too, but John would never be able to say it, so he lets his theme song say it for him.

He knows about losing loved ones – he’s lost too many people he cared for along the years to count – and the consulting detective surely has deduced that, too. So often Sherlock’s violin has comforted and lulled John back to sleep after a nightmare. He can’t play, but he can offer himself to help in other ways. His friend only needs to reach out.

Of course John will do everything that is in his power, and love Sherlock nonetheless. The sleuth likes to pretend he’s a cold reasoning machine, and sometimes John wonders about what feelings can – if any – bubble inside him, but if it turns out the detective is not a pure reasoner…he might disappoint himself, but John would never mock him for that. Doesn’t Sherlock know?

More than anything else, though, John utterly means the refrain. He’s not going to desert Sherlock, no matter what happens. He simply can’t – the man has saved him, and whatever the doctor does he’ll never manage to repay him.

He very much wants to protect his friend. Every fibre of his being demands it. If only he had known in time how to protect Sherlock’s heart, he would have. Even if it meant guarding Irene and watch the two bloody geniuses be smitten with each other when his own heart aches with love for his exatraordinary flatmate. But the damage is already done…

_So if you're mad, get mad, don't hold it all inside,_  
_Come on and talk to me now._  
_Hey there, what you got to hide?_  
 _I get angry too, well, I'm a lot like you._  
 _When you're standing at the crossroads,_  
 _And don't know which path to choose,_  
 _Let me come along, 'cause even if you're wrong_  
  
_I'll stand by you,_  
 _I'll stand by you, won't let nobody hurt you,_  
 _I'll stand by you._

A few months later, John has no idea how to get through Sherlock’s skull. So the sleuth is upset, fine. John wants to help. Just to help. Being told he’s not a friend? That hurts. If he’s not considered a friend, why does the consulting detective even bother with his company? It’s not like he is useful to solve cases.

He wants to comfort, if only the detective would let him. They can work through panic, they can work through anything. It’s fine if Sherlock is angry, but why at him? (Because he’s there to be teared into, right…but it’s unfair.) But John can barely blame him when he’s hurt now, by his friend’s words, and his automatic reaction is anger too…

It doesn’t mean that John is going to abandon his flatmate. He might take a walk to rein himself in, but he’s never, ever going to turn his back definitely on the detective. Sherlock might be frustrated, puzzled, afraid and even miss his mark at times (however unwilling to admit it he might be), but that’s when he needs John the most. It’s obvious, as he would say. And the doctor is not going to disappoint.  He has taken as his mission the protection of his surprisingly frail (though he hides it fair too well) genius, and he’ll be damned if he fails.

_Baby, even to your darkest hour, and I'll never desert you,_  
 _I'll stand by you._  
 _And when, when the night falls on you baby,_  
 _You're feeling all alone, won't be on your own,_  
 _I'll stand by you._  
  
_I'll stand by you, won't let nobody hurt you,_  
 _I'll stand by you, baby even to your darkest hour,_  
 _And I'll never desert you,_  
 _I'll stand by you,_  
  
_I'll stand by you._  
 _I'll stand by you, won't let nobody hurt you,_  
 _I'll stand by you, baby even to your darkest hour,_  
 _And I'll never desert you_  
 _I'll stand by you_

After the end of the world (no, it’s not that, is it? the world still orbits quietly – it’s just John who’s now adrift) the former blogger cannot hear a lot of music without falling apart. Nothing classical (there’s bound to be a violin in the midst), no Christmas carols (Sh…he played for their little Christmas party, oh God) and certainly not his own theme song, which is screaming to all and sundry how John failed his love.

He’d meant to follow the words’ guide – this was not a theme song, since the first time he picked it, it has always been a promise…one which he has broken. Unwittingly, of course, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that he messed up, and it cost _him_ his life.

Because when the darkest hour came (and it was always going to come, what with Moriarty on the loose) for all of John’s talk, for all his proclamations of faithfulness, and his readiness – fuck, his eagerness, he’d punched a Chief Superintendent on purpose (not that it hadn’t been highly satisfying) – to follow the slandered sleuth, and be at his side to hell and back, in jail or lawbreaking as much as in crime fighting, he had deserted him instead.

He had deserted him, exactly when the sleuth needed him the most. Been taken in by Moriarty’s ploy, no differently than bloody Anderson and Donovan. At least the policemen had never pretended to like him. But John…John had promised to never abandon him, and then rushed away. After insulting him. And Sherlock had let him go, unprotesting.

That’s what breaks John. That after raging that he was being taken in by Moriarty’s lies in their flat, when the moment came Sherlock didn’t yell, “It’s obviously a trap, idiot!” He’d let John get furious at him, hurl abuse at him, with no more reaction than the chip and pin _machine_ his blogger argued with. Only Tesco’s register hadn’t broken after his insults (it was, arguably, already broken before…or perhaps just in a mood). His friend, instead…

John will be haunted to his death by the doubt that he could have stopped what happened. That he could have saved his love’s life, if only he’d trusted him. If he’d stayed. If he’d protected his friend like he was goddamn meant to do. But no. He might as well have thrown Sherlock off that ledge himself. He’d left him convinced he had to fight alone…and Sherlock had given up. He should have known. (“You’ve met Sherlock Holmes: how many friends do you think he has?”)

He decides to leave Baker Street. True, his theme song will pursue him forever, ambush him from cafés and supermarkets and every place that deems a musical background a must, and John will have to learn not to throw up when he hears it (that first time he did was…an unfortunate accident). But at least he won’t go crazy by the sheer emptiness of the flat and the lack of moulding human organs in the fridge anymore. There is no sense in staying there, when he left the only time it counted.    


	3. Hiatus – Ti penso raramente by Biagio Antonacci

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As usual, I don’t own anything.

 

It’s one year that Sherlock has left home for his self-imposed one-man crusade. There is simply no way that he will allow his friends to be in the crosshairs because of him. Jim was bright, indeed – the consulting detective wouldn’t do what he’s doing for his own blood family.

After all, in that case, Mycroft would step in – it’s not like the annoying git is easy to murder, the sleuth pondered the matter enough – and whisk everyone away to a secret location. It’s not like their parents have pressing business, and Myc would somehow find a way to justify the employement of Secret Service against Moriarty’s empire.

He won’t do that for his little brother’s goldfishes, though, (nevermind that Mrs. Hudson leaving Baker Street would be a cataclysm), so Sherlock has to accomplish this by himself. (Mycroft gives him capitals, of course, and agrees to keep up his friends’ surveillance, but nothing more.)

Which means the detective is now alone, in a bar in Palermo, Sicily, waiting for a snitch about the most powerful Mafia clan (of course they were Moriarty’s associates) and can’t help but hear the song blaring from the loudspeakers. Which is…well, awfully congruent with his own situation. Sometimes knowing twenty languages is a curse.       

_Lamentarti tu di me,_

_You complaining about me,_

_lamentarmi io di te,_

_me  complaining about you,_

_tutto tempo che non torna più,_

_all time that won’t come back anymore_

How  much time did they spend  bickering? Or, in Mrs. Hudson’s words, ‘having a domestic’?  John chiding him about the fridge’s organisation and his unwillingness to do his share of chores. Sherlock belittling the blog, when he loved it,  delighted in the physical proof, out there for everyone to see and lasting, of his blogger’s admiration.

He had fed out of the freely offered praise like a starved creature. And still, he picked and snarled at every word because he couldn’t show how much he yearned for his flatmate’s recognition. In his experience, showing you deeply wanted something meant – in the best case – that the price of it shot up like a rocket.

Now, though, every moment that wasn’t spent making John happy (if only as advance payment for all the grief the sleuth was forced to cause him), every moment Sherlock hadn’t been creating happy memories to store in his mind palace – and God knew how much he needed those – seems irredeemably wasted.

 He wants all his sulks back. He wants all his sneers back. And he wants them replaced with cuddling together on the sofa, or… (no, no, John is very vocally not gay, there would be no ‘or’, nothing further, certainly).  Unless that silly time travel serial John loved to watch is true, though, and Sherlock is somehow recruited by a Time Lord, there is no way such wishes could come true.    

_Ho già chiesto agli usurai_

_I already asked the usurers_

_dei cervelli deboli_

_of the weak brains_

_di risolvere il mio caso_

_to solve my case_

He has, hasn’t he? True, he’s the one solving case usually. Helping the weak-minded…for a price, or for free, according to how much fun there is to be had. But when he’s the stupid one, the one who’s blind, who can’t solve his problems, there is only one person he can turn to.

The overbearing Big Brother that would male Orwell proud. The British government. And Mycroft certainly knows how to milk the maximum from his cornered petitioners. Who knows how many silly cases Sherlock will have to accept after this – problems his brother has already solved, of course he has, but can’t be bother to follow up to conclusion, because that would require leaving his office.

Like all beggars, the consulting detective can’t afford to be picky. Someone has to look after John. Guarantee that while Sherlock is…gallivanting around, ensuring his protection, the doctor won’t manage to get himself into trouble at home. John’s adrenaline addiction, which made him a perfect companion for the sleuth, might very well rear up his head.

If Sherlock has to find a home to get back to, eventually, he needs John to be alive and well there. If he has to beg his brother to ensure that his…friend (John claimed him as friend) is safe, he does not shy from it. Besides, Mycroft will probably enjoy still having someone to spy upon. For now, Sherlock can work and leave John in his brother’s competent, watchful hands.    

_Ti dissolvi dentro me_

_You melt inside me_

Of course, he’s holding onto John, in his own way. He keeps the man secreted inside his mind palace, his secret source of comfort, his personal trainer and motivator, his…no, that can’t be said. It can’t even be thought. Nobody can take this treasure from him, short of lobomization.

Still, as months went by, he’s worrying that he might be losing bits of John. He remembers the ‘brilliant’ and ‘amazing’, of course, tries to hold onto them with everything he has…but some days, it’s like a fairytale he heard as a child, or maybe something he read on the blog. It doesn’t sound true. It can’t be, after all, that someone as amazing as John saw something worth in the eternal cockup that is Sherlock.

What he does remember – vividly, and word for word – is each exasperated quip, each stern chiding John has ever thrown at him. True, his mind-John’s voice is becoming closer and closer to his inner-Mycroft… annoyed, exasperated, mocking, above all disappointed. But that is because the sleuth deserves it, isn’t it?    

_ti risolvi senza me_

Apparently Sherlock does not know Italian as well as he thought. Or the singer is being obnoxiously ambiguous. Or maybe both. ‘Senza me’ is ‘without you’, no contest there. But  the verb is annoyingly multifaceted. For some reason, which is certainly imputable to Mummy (and is so going on the list), the first meaning that comes to mind is ‘solve’ as in equations, but that is not really applicable to the ‘you’ of the song, is it? People are not problems…even amazingly complex ones like his former flatmate. And he certainly hopes John is not going to every lose his lovely intricacy…or discover that all his difficulties are removed with the simple removal of one annoying flatmate. 

The second meaning to keep in consideration is break into its parts, and that is something that can’t be allowed to happen. The detective has taken steps to avoid it. Well, one step, the above-mentioned Mycroft involvement. Besides, he shouldn’t think too highly of himself. John has already lost friends –better people than the consulting detective can ever hope to become, surely – and he didn’t break.

Actually, the most probable meaning – the one often properly expressed that way – is ‘you decide without me’. But decide what? The singer won’t explain.  Of course, right now John is moving on with his life, without having to pander to a needy flatmate. He can do whatever he wants. Pull a girl each night, no cases to interrupt him. Find a full-time work, now that Sherlock is not likely to require him at any given moment. Whatever decisions he’s taking, the consulting detective can’t help but hope that there will be a tiny niche for him to fit in when he – as per John’s express request – stops being dead.  

     

_neanche il tempo per, per estinguersi_

_not even the time to, to fade away_

Is this what they’ve been doing? Going their separate ways and making sure to delete the other, without even letting themselves the time to let the feelings – there were feelings, of _some_ sort, he didn’t dream that up – be dealt with properly?

No, no, no, the singer isn’t singing about them after all. They’re not going to fade out of each other’s life. He’s going to be back. John wants him back. He’s just taking the long way home. He’ll be back in Baker Street, and John will be in his armchair, and all will be well again. Gosh, he sounds like a child. And they lived happily after? Well, why not? Don’t they _deserve_ it?  (Not him, maybe, but John certainly does, and he’s asked him to be back. He’s asked.) 

_Io ti penso raramente_

_I think rarely about you_

_te lo dico veramente_

_I tell you sincerely_

_è bastato star dentro_

_it was enough to be inside_

_in un altro cappotto_

_a different coat_

_per capire che in fondo_

_to understand that eventually_

_avrei rotto, avrei rotto_

_I’d have annoyed you, annoyed you_

True, the wording is a bit weird – for Italian too, actually – but the imagery is actually so poignant that one would think the man knew him. Mycroft has not commissioned a pop song to remind him, did he? It is true that he cannot let himself indulge too often in thoughts of John. For one, they’re bloody distracting. Two, he can’t allow himself to get maudlin. He has work to do.   (Where is that damned snitch? He didn’t get himself caught, did he?) John is his secret comfort, yes, but comfort is a luxury now.

And as for the rest…why does this stupid singer have to mention putting on a different coat?  Sherlock has never been sentimental. He’s not, truly. He even enjoys the game of disguise, of presenting a front and fooling people. He’s never missed his Belstaff. Not once. Yes, the coat was comfortable, but had no significance. He did not – emphatically – use it to ‘look cool and mysterious’. John was just being silly that day. Why is he even thinking about the coat now?

The song is  actually silly. The detective certainly does not need a change of wardrobe to realise he annoyed John. It was obvious enough, what with the number of times his flatmate was forced to storm out to stop himself from strangling him.

Or is this implying more than that? Does this mean that whoever the singer left would ultimately get fed up once too much and cut all ties? He’s always wondered what would take John to do that. Before leaving, he didn’t find that boundary. Hopefully, he hasn’t hit it with his fake death.

 

_Io ti penso raramente_

_I think rarely about you_

_ho diviso cuore e mente_

_I’ve divided heart and mind_

Did he? Honestly, the song doesn’t make it look like the singer is doing a terribly good job of it. You don’t write songs for people you don’t think about. Not for people who are bolted in the dungeons of the mind palace, somewhere deep where his heart and the rest of the goddamned intrusive feelings are secreted. Maybe the singer needs pointers on proper mind palace technique? The consulting detective toys for a second with the thought of writing to the author about it… once he’s back home.

 

_anche se con fatica_

_even if with effort_

_attraverso la vita_

_I go through life_

_consapevole in fondo_

_aware that eventually_

_avrei rotto, avrei rotto_

_I’d have annoyed you, annoyed you_

The consulting detective can relate to this – very much. Cases used to be more than just work. They were pleasure, passion even. Even more so since John joined him – _willingly_ , giggled with him at crime scenes, protected him and generally cared for him. For some reason, John’s brand of caring is much more tolerable than his big brother’s nosiness.

Now, he’s involved in the biggest case he will probably take on in his career, the dismantling of a whole international crime web, and all he can feel is the strain of it. He’s trudging through the case, a constant beat in his oh-so-inconveniently discovered heart urging him to work more, quicker, harder, be crueller. Everything and anything to get back.

Will he go home only to discover John is definitely fed up with him, this last trick, however necessary, finally unforgivable? Oh, please no. He needs to go back and have Baker Street back. With Mrs. Hudson’s coddling, and John in his armchair, and Billy on the mantle.  This silly singer is being negative on purpose to ease the distance – but he clearly has no hope to ever get back. Sherlock has every intention to, and will not let the dark whispers that haunt his brain every-so-often win.      

_Raccontare io di te_

_Me telling about you_

_raccontare tu di me_

_you telling about me_

_pane fresco per pettegoli_

_fresh bread for gossipmongers_

Well, that is all too true. Not exactly the Sherlock telling about John part. He does rant about his flatmate/friend/crush. Yes…in his own head he can admit to a crush at least…It seems a strangely fitting word, given the double meaning. His feelings will definitely crush and ruin him. But he only opens to people who are trustworthy. Molly, who will not judge or blabber. Mycroft, if he’s entirely desperate. Mrs. Hudson, if he’s in need of advice – even knowing he won’t follow it. His deductive powers at least help him to tell apart friends from ruthless exploiters.

John, though… A combination of the silly shrink’s advice, his own need to share his fascination with the world’s only consulting detective, and a honest attempt to advert to get him more cases, to ensure he does  not shoot the walls, have somehow persuaded the doctor to make his blog into _their_ blog.

The blog about the consulting detective’s adventures. And boy, did that start the gossip. For some reason still mysterious to Sherlock, the media have taken to them like a pack of sharks to wounded prey.  (Do sharks hunt in pack? Never mind…)

 Gossip started in earnest, even – rather, mostly – about their own personal, private life. People don’t go mad about Lestrade’s wedding problems. Why should they care about who Sherlock and John are or are not bedding? The point to both of them is to catch criminals.

And of course, Moriarty jumped to the occasion and manipulated it all for his benefit. Still, the detective can’t condemn his friend for starting the blog, despite all the flaws in style and the tendency to silly puns. Not when he rereads it every chance he gets, to remind himself that John finds him brilliant, amazing…if a madman.   

_Io ti penso raramente_

_I think rarely about you_

_te lo dico veramente_

_I tell you sincerely_

_è bastato star dentro_

_it was enough to be inside_

_in un altro cappotto_

_a different coat_

_per capire che in fondo_

_to understand that eventually_

_avrei rotto, avrei rotto_

_I’d have annoyed you, annoyed you_

Oh no. The refrain. Why do people do that? Useless repetition. It irks Sherlock. And in the name of good music, why one so long? Did the author write the song, realise it was only a minute or so long and decide ‘never mind – we’ll just repeat everything twice’? The worst is that a producer somewhere agreed to this. How low has the music industry steeped?  

(He has to let his mind rant about the decay of music, because otherwise he’ll ask himself why on earth did the deem necessary to include the coat mention in the refrain, and clothing is of no importance. None. He’s not about to miss the bloody Belstaff. Or the look in John’s eyes when he popped the collar.)   

_Io ti penso raramente_

_I think rarely about you_

_ho diviso cuore e mente_

_I’ve divided heart and mind_

Wait – the refrain is not done yet? He was exaggerating when he said the song was just repeated twice, but it seems he might be spot on. He’s tempted to get up and leave, but his informant will come here, if he comes at all, and escaping the silly song is not worth missing him and prolonging the case. Nothing is worth prolonging his absence from home.

He would tune out the stupid music, but he can’t close his ears without risking to miss something vital – someone sent to pass a message about a different location meeting, for example – so he has to suffer through this excuse for melody. The things he does for John. Sigh.

 

 

_anche se con fatica_

_even if with effort_

_attraverso la vita_

_I go through life_

_consapevole in fondo_

_aware that eventually_

_avrei rotto, avrei rotto_

_I’d have annoyed you, annoyed you_

Ok, this song is intolerable. And it is intolerable exactly because it’s so tailored to what he’s feeling (he’s not allowed to have feelings, not now, he’s busy). Only he’s not busy, not exactly, so instead of going after a mafia boss he’s forced to stay here and listen over and over to the idiot wailing about how being separated from his love and straining to go through their undoubtedly unspeakably dull daily life is for the best.

Better than stay at  her (until now, strangely for Italian, there were no gendered words, but he’s betting it’s a her – balance of probability) side and have her break up with him. Without more data – without knowing if the singer was forced to leave, maybe, like he himself has been – Sherlock cannot say, but he suspect the man wailing left (her?) out of sheer cowardness.   

_Invisibile per gli occhi tuoi sarò, I know_

_Invisible for your eyes I will be, I know_

_e non avrai mai più cura tu di me, I know_

_and you won’t ever again care for me, I know_

_non ho avuto gusto io andando via, I  know_

_I was in poor taste going away, I know_

_incredibile l’estranea che c’è in te_

_incredible the stranger that is lays in  you_

Aaaand…confirmed. It’s a she that the man left. Boring, really.  This stanza is a scary prospect. The thing of Sherlock’s nightmares. Worst case scenario – one he really should contemplate more often, to prepare himself in case it happens at his return. But with John being his only source of comfort now, to be honest, he doesn’t dare to.

Whatever the singer did when he left, after all, it’s improbable that he displayed more ‘poor taste’ than pretending to kill himself in front of someone. It was necessary, yes, but even the sleuth recognises that is some spectacular bad taste in a relationship of any kind.

If the minor infraction – minor compared to what Sherlock did, surely – makes him so sure that she won’t ever again care for him, that he’ll be a ghost in her eyes…what should the sleuth expect? Can he handle John deciding that his miracle has come too late? (He thought he’d be home by now…but Moriarty’s web seems to broaden each time he takes out a strand.) John deciding that, as far as he’s concerned, Sherlock Holmes is dead and will stay that way? John not caring for him anymore?

The simple answer, sizzling in his gut, is ‘no’. A big, loud, resounding No. But apparently. momentary separation turned this silly woman into a stranger. That could never happen to them. True, the doctor holds unfathomable depths in his soul. He’s always surprising – that’s part of his charm.

But Sherlock knows him. Not all of him, he’ll need his whole life to unravel John Watson’s mystery (and he’s rather looking forward to that), but there’s no way that a few, short months will turn his friend into a completely different person. (Into one of the thousands of people that hate him). It would be against some fundamental law of nature, the consulting detective is sure.     

_Io ti penso raramente_

_I think rarely about you_

_te lo dico veramente_

_I tell you sincerely_

_è bastato star dentro_

_it was enough to be inside_

_in un altro cappotto_

_a different coat_

_per capire che in fondo_

_to understand that eventually_

_avrei rotto, avrei rotto_

Three? Seriously? Are they going to repeat the whole effing song thrice? Even Irene would take pity of people after two times. That’s it, he’s going to fuck up this case because he can’t stand what passes for music now in the land that sawPaganini, Vivaldi, Rossini (Jim’s favourite, given his magpie seal), Verdi and a number of others genius composers.

No, no, breath, it seems an eternity, but it can’t be more than three minutes. He can stand three minutes of torture…or four. For the sake of solving this case and catching one of the most wanted mafia bosses in history, he can.

Though this song is absolutely ridiculous – he knows everything about the unexpected enlightening power of random objects and activities, conversations and people… But an eye-opening coat? It would be the most pricey and coveted garment ever. The obsession of Italy with fashion has crossed over into nonsense fantasy. And for someone’s sake, why did it have to be a coat?

 

_Io ti penso raramente_

_I think rarely about you_

_ho diviso cuore e mente_

_I’ve divided heart and mind_

By now it’s certain that it is a lie. The singer has barely a sliver of his soul that is not invaded by thoughts of his former partner. If the first time he said so Sherlock thought this might be still – mostly – true, like for him, claiming it for third time in a row is definitely a case of the man (in this case) doth protests too much. Whatever walls the man thought he’d put up, they crumbled to dust long before this song.

He’s tempted to pity the singer, if he wasn’t so unbearably boring. The man is weak. Not like the sleuth at all, after all. He knows how to bolt feelings and thoughts he can’t allow to indulge on, never to see the light of day. He’s never slipped. (Fine, it happened twice…but it was when he was still home, and way too comfortable, mellowed by tea and food he’d accidentally ingested at John’s behest.)

_anche se con fatica_

_even if with effort_

_attraverso la vita_

_I go through life_

_consapevole in fondo_

_aware that eventually_

_avrei r_ _otto, avrei rotto_

_I’d have annoyed you, annoyed you_

Yeah, everyone got this by now. Whoever is in hearing range can recite the thing by heart. And honestly, the detective is ready to agree. This is not a matter of fashion. Never has been. Of course the poor, unnamed woman would have become fed up with the author.

She probably already was long before he walked away from her, and was just too polite to say so. She must have toasted to his departure. A lover that repeats everything at least thrice? In the consulting detective’s eyes, that should be (though probably isn’t, because people are idiots) ground for justifiable homicide.

Hell, the man is probably having such a hard time because he bores himself to tears, too. How had he ever felt some measure of kinship for the idiot? (The realisation is a relief, actually.)  

_Io ti penso raramente_

_I think rarely about you_

_con la forza della mente_

_with the strength of the mind_

_allontano i momenti che mi tornano veri_

_I push away the moments, which come back to me true,_

_quando rara e radiosa mi venivi a cercare_

_when rare and radiant you came to look for me_

See? Nothing in common at all. Yeah, of course, the sleuth _has to_ actively stop himself from thinking about John, in the worst case several  times a day. Shoo John out of the mindpalace room he’s in if he is trying to deduce. ‘Not now’ is an all too common thought.   And obviously the untimely memories are perfectly rendered. That’s the point of having a mind palace at all. And yes, radiant is an adjective that would be perfectly fitting for his blond, warm, caring conductor of light.

But rare? Not at all. Before being forced to leave, John was always there. Well, not always. He had work, and atupid dates, and errands to run. But he would come back to him with only a text. He would hover by Sherlock’s side, and if they were in different rooms, come to him a ridiculous number of times with tea or offer of foods or some other excuse.

Their experiences  are nothing alike. Sherlock can shove the idiot singer’s worries away, delete them. He can breathe.


	4. Season 3 – You don’t have to say you love me by Dusty Springfield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still not owning anything. Otherwise this song would have found its way into the actual OST  
> A.N. **Chapter 2** was apparently missing from this story because I am an idiot, you might want to go and read it.   
> **Trigger warnings: Talk of drug use, talk of overdose, suicidal thoughts.**

 

 

 

Sherlock thought he would have to suffer through no more silences. Not when he got home. His absence from Baker Street has hammered what it is to truly be lonely, rather than alone. Perhaps because he’s never had anyone to miss, before. But this all was supposed to end when he would finally reunite with his friends. With _John_.

 There would be his used-to-be-exasperating two fingered pecking at computer keys (how can you miss something so maddening?), random Dr. Who and Bond nights, the kettle’s whistle and the shower running (especially don’t think of that, or what you thought you glanced from the partially frosted glass door leading to the bathroom from his bedroom), even when John was in a quiet mood. And when he wasn’t, there would be soft chatter about random trivia, and ‘amazing’ and ‘fantastic’ mixed with the frequent ‘show off’ and ‘git’ (weren’t there?), and just John being John.

Instead, back at Baker Street, Sherlock discovers that he’s supposed to stay there alone. John’s moved. He’s moved on. That’s almost the same verb – for a reason. When he used to yearn for enough quiet to hear himself think, now the silence is creepy. Eerie. No telly can fill it – not without John by his side to tease him about deducing actors, rather than plots – and the violin can only help so much. It reflects Sherlock’s feelings, usually, and when you want to escape them, it’s not really a wise choice. Of course, there’s always the radio. And of course, Sherlock’s rotten luck holds true. Why, if he was less rational he might start to think he’s cursed.       

_When I said I needed you_  
 _You said you would always stay_  
 _It wasn't me who changed but you_  
 _And now you've gone away_  


Not that they ever said anything cheesy like that – they’re British blokes, after all – but words need not be spoken to be understood. Especially from the world’s only consulting detective, who invented (and married) a work out of noticing what the others couldn’t, and John Hamish Watson, who has the most expressive face anyone on this planet can be graced with, and will make himself perfectly understood with the arch of a brow or one of his 114 (until now) classified smiles.

It’s from Sherlock’s petulant “I need an assistant”, and consequent job offer, that they’ve been a unit. And is it really surprising that, discovering that John was willing to kill for him (from the start) and die for and with him (a few months later), the sleuth would assume that his blogger-cum-flatmate-cum-doctor-cum-bodyguard was unwilling to forsake him like anyone else had?

The detective certainly has not changed. Obviously, he has – physically, he’s left with a few painful reminders, and there are way more bolted and blinded doors in his mind palace than it used to be – but not fundamentally, no. And certainly not regarding his feelings toward, or addiction to, one John Watson. He’s left aching, more than the need of a fix ever did, by the sheer absence of his…friend?

_John_ has changed – before, the thought of a girlfriend talking him round in Sherlock’s favour would be as unneeded as absurd (mostly because it was the boffin’s job to scare them away) – and the lonely detective honestly has no idea how to react. He’s not prepared to interact with this new, foreign John. The one who changed, who moved on, who moved away.

Really, the consulting detective should just get up now and change radio station, but this is the one John left it on before moving, and he’s loath to break even that one, flimsy connection. Sentiment. He’s disgusting. He should get up and turn it off, then, but he’s overcome with a lethargy that won’t let him move at all.      

  

_Don't you see_  
_That now you've gone_  
 _And I'm left here on my own_  
 _That I have to follow you_  
 _And beg you to come home?_

 

No, no, of course not. What even is the singer _thinking_? That would ruin eveything. If anything, Sherlock has to up whatever attracted John in the first place. The cool, mysterious, untouchable look. If he suddenly started acting _clingy_ – God forbid – John would rightfully be disgusted.

Perhaps the singer feels free to act so unsightly because she’s a woman, which means she’s allowed to be more _emotional_. Or maybe she knows that her lover would be flattered by such a self-abasing attitude (in which case, he’s an idiot, and she’s lucky to have lost him even if she doesn’t realise it yet). Anyway, there’s no way that Sherlock can follow such a plan.

The secret – the secret he isn’t willing to admit almost even to himself – is that, if he could, all the sleuth’s instincts would agree with implementing such behaviours. Following? Hell, that used to be a cherished habit, and he still might – no, Mary is too smart, she would notice, and if she tells John he’d be even angrier. To be avoided at all costs, no matter what his very cells are screaming at him.

Begging? If he thought it could make a difference, the once proud consulting detective would happily spend hours – days – forever on his knees, if he was sure that it would grant him John moving back in. It wouldn’t.

It doesn’t mean he won’t try, because really, pack animal instincts might overcome him someday. But it’s not enough. It’s not what John wants – he has apologised already and failed utterly at it – and if the only detail lacking was a bit more of contrition, John would have let him know. He hasn’t. The doctor doesn’t need his abasement, no matter how fitting or even relieving it might seem to Sherlock.

Two years (ages) ago, his blogger asked for his return. The detective assumed it meant he wanted to go back to their routine. If not… What is even the point of Sherlock Holmes being in London? And how, if at all – oh, there must be a way! – can this rift between them be repaired?           


_You don't have to say you love me_  
_Just be close at hand_  
 _You don't have to stay forever_  
 _I will understand_  
 _Believe me, believe me_  
 _I can't help but love you_  
 _But believe me_  
 _I'll never tie you down_

 

Now _that_ sounds like a plan.  One that might be hard to execute, sure, especially because, contrarily to the singer, Sherlock can’t just come out and say it plainly. John would balk – or start loudly affirming his sexual orientation, _again_ (does he never get bored of it?). But if the sleuth has ever heard a reasonable offer, that’s it.

Of course John doesn’t have to say he loves him – nobody ever said they loved anyone, in their relationship. No matter the newfound self-awareness of the exact depth of his own regard – and isn’t it bloody irritating that Jim bloody Moriarty realised as much long before him? Actually vocalising their feelings could only highlight the disparity of their affections, and drive John even further away, if possible.

But yes, John ‘close at hand’…that’s all he’s ever wanted. ( _Liar._ He wanted much, much more, but he couldn’t get it. At least _close_ wasn’t supposed to be an unattainable dream.) He should invite John on cases, shouldn’t he? Or would he get angry again? He needed John. No, he _needs_ John. Isn’t it obvious? How does one earn his confidence again? Maybe Mrs. Hudson has some suggestions…

And yes, of course it’s not going to be forever. Whatever the sleuth has dreamed, wished, to keep himself sane, is willingly…not deleted, he can’t, but bolted away. There will be no going on till they retired – together, in some warmer place maybe, Greece, Provence, John might like that, or even nearer, somewhere they could commute to London if they got nostalgic.

There will be nothing of that, he accepts it. But now… isn’t he entitled to a bit of his blogger now? Hasn’t he _paid_ for it? Not forever. Just a while. A few cases still, at the very least. John’s blog needs another few posts.

And – oh – truth. So much truth. Can’t help but love you. Exactly how he’d word it. For everyone’s convenience, he would get rid of his feelings if he could. Tone them down, at least. It’s not like he’s asked for it – the yearning, the aching. Are there really people who want to fall in love? It’s awful, and illogic, and above everything else _painful_. And he’s never been encouraged by hiss beloved – certainly – nor nurtured the feeling himself. (He might have…indulged it, a bit, sometimes – rarely – but that was a horse of a very different colour.) This utterly unrequited and unwanted love still won’t stop.

Naturally, he’s no about to let it guide his actions, like he taught Irene so long ago. Wanting John safe is not a question of sentiment, thank you very much, it’s a question of cold logic. The detective evaluates their respective value, not just for him but for the universe at large (John saves lives – all day, every day, half the time without even realising), and puts on the line the less precious one. It’s not love. It’s economy, and even Mycroft would agree.

Ignoring his wishes and cravings, he certainly won’t ‘tie him down’. There’s a nuance of constraint in the words that repel him instinctively. He doesn’t want John by his side because of obligation, trickery, or anything that is not his friend’s pleasure to be with him. They used to enjoy themselves like children. How can it be gone?               

 

_Left alone with just a memory_  
_Life seems dead and so unreal_  
 _All that's left is loneliness_  
 _There's nothing left to feel_

 

That’s wrong, too. Which makes him wonder about the singer. Or, to be precise, the first half of it is spot on. Memories are certainly haunting the flat (it’s the only verb that fits, honestly), hiding in every piece of furniture and speck of dust. Some more than others, of course.

It’s no surprise that he spends most of his waking hours, when not planning how to gain John back, wondering if this horrible, hellish mock of a reality is real at all. His brain is capable of some amazing feats of mimesis after all. Hopefully he’s just still in Serbia and his brain is on a pain-filled (and poorly successful) attempt to escape reality. And when you start hoping to be in the hand of merciless torturers (because then you might _still be saved_ ), well, you’re fucked up.

Sometimes, he even ponders if the Lazarus plan worked at all. He did promise to shake hands with Jim in hell, and while his experience entailed no horned, hooved demons with pitchforks, he’s never tried to especially please a God he didn’t believe in, and everything that happened since Bart’s in his experience could easily be described as hell. If he finds Moriarty again, he supposes he’ll have his answer.

Still, the singer’s description make her seem like more sociopathic than him. Overwhelming, crushing loneliness, yes, of course. But no feelings?  Sherlock would pay her for the trick to finally lose his feelings, because no matter what he does, or what chemicals he assumes (he’s tried them all in the past), they refuse to go away.  

So no, there are still emotions eating away at him, while he does his best Madame Tussaud’s exhibit impression. Longing, guilt, a good scoop of despair, that all-powerful, useless _love_ which refuses to take any hint. And half a dozen others he’s too confused to even name, all making an inestricably tangled ball of yarn inside his chest, that somehow weigh more as if each string of yarn was built out of lead.

What do you do with Gordian knots? You cut them. But how do you cut things out of your chest? John was a surgeon before his hand started trembling, he would know. (He can’t ask Molly because, in case he’s still alive, he’d like to maintain that status, and living beings are not exactly her specialty in surgery). But John refuses to talk to him. And they’re back to square one.          

  
_You don't have to say you love me_   
_Just be close at hand_   
_You don't have to stay forever_   
_I will understand_   
_Believe me, believe me_

So her (statistically, probably male) lover doesn’t believe the singer, either. The repetition should annoy Sherlock, but honestly, he can understand the feeling. He’s lost count of how many times he’s apologised (or at least tried to) since he’s been back, and this is a message that bears repetition, too.

No love, no forevers, nothing his vehemently not gay (back then; now that he’s actually engaged… probably ten times worse) blogger could interpret as a request for _more_ than he’s willing (should be willing  - has always been willing, in the past) to offer. But there are cases to solve, and adrenaline highs to enjoy, and criminals who might not want to force the sleuth to kill himself but will certainly attempt to get at him with a variety of weapons.

Of course, the consulting detective can take care of himself – has been doing so for years, as unpleasant or not exactly successful as it has been – but John killed a man for him before 48 hourse since the fateful meeting in Bart’s lab had gone by. If the detective plays the ‘dangerous – for both of us’ card well enough, he should obtain John’s company. For a few hours at least. ‘Just be close at hand’ – that would probably be the wrong thing to text John, at least until he’s back in his former friend’s good graces, but it is oh-so-very tempting to send it anyway.

He’ll take anything John is willing to offer, any scrap of attention, and yes, it’s pathetic, and he shouldn’t even entertain the thought, but _he_ ’s pathetic, and desperate, and having to pretend he’s not does not help him to actually bury his feelings deep enough that they won’t resurface.

  
_You don't have to say you love me_   
_Just be close at hand_   
_You don't have to stay forever_   
_I will understand_   
_Believe me, believe me, believe me_

Again? Ok, there’s “bears repeating” and there’s “You probably got dumped because you bored him to tears, girl.” He _gets_ the feeling – utterly so. It doesn’t mean that he wants to hear it again, and again, and again. Certainly not when John still refuses to talk to him.

He needs his blogger, his doctor, his colleague, in any capacity the man can spare a little of himself for the sleuth. No lover, fine. Though some choices of words, before he left, made him wonder if…but any chance he might have had has clearly past. Out of sight out of mind. (The Italian version of that saying uses heart, rather than mind, and it might be more accurate in his situation.) No flatmate anymore. John has moved on, moved away…just moved. So much moving. And now Sherlock is moved – almost broken – by every empty space in the flat where the man used to be. Not even a friend – he’s hurt John, and doesn’t deserve it.

John has better things to do – domestic life with his surprising fiancée, his job as a doctor, pub nights with friend who did not betray his trust…anything he likes, really. But still, the consulting detective needs at least a few moments with him. If he’s supposed to keep breathing, and take Mycroft’s case instead of overdosing in a doss house, he requires at least bits and pieces of John. If his former friend stays adamant on cutting him from his life entirely, believing that the detective should have just stayed dead, it would be a pity to disappoint him again.

So yes, Sherlock will _understand_. He’ll accept any condition. Just as long as John comes on another case (he used to like that, and honestly it’s his best chance to lure him back)…or really, steps into their flat with any sort of excuse. Even to ask if Sherlock’s mind palace holds Victorian flower language (note to self: look it up), to consult him on Mary’s bouquet. He proposed. They’ll have a wedding to plan.  If  (big, mammoth if) he’s ever forgiven, maybe he can use his talent to focus on details to get involved in it. It’ll require John coming by Baker Street, won’t it? Multiple times. At least until he’s actually married. That would be heaven. (And hell. But he’ll take whatever he can get. Now, back to plan: obtain John’s forgiveness.)         


End file.
